


Misfits

by Jac_k247



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: A lot - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Bad Parent Asmodeus (Shadowhunter Chronicles), Bad Parent Robert Lightwood, Complicated Relationships, Daddy Issues, F/M, I Don't Even Know, Inspired by Fanfiction, Intimacy, Like, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2019-11-23 10:50:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18150887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jac_k247/pseuds/Jac_k247
Summary: The fic where the squad are badasses who love each other and don't care about the law.ALL SHIPS GET THE APPRECIATION THEY DESERVE.Inspired by Mustang Kids by Whimper Soldier you should check it out, it's super spicy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's half past two and I have school today, I don't know if this is a one-shot but I need to sleep so I had to stop.

Magnus Bane was the chosen son of a notoriously ruthless gang leader who dabbled in human trafficking when the market started to work in his favour. As a young boy, already with blood on his hands, who'd just spent his tenth birthday on a street corner, he'd been taken in by his biological father and taught all the worthwhile lessons of being the soul hier to an international business empire lead by a terrible man with horrific morals. It took him longer than he wanted to admit to escape the clutches of Asmodeus but when he did, he set up camp in the penthouse of an abandoned apartment building with every intention to get his life together until he found bliss in the scent of the expensive materials that he blew off all his money on mingling with the stench of the damp in his wonderfully decrepit home and decided that this was how he wanted to live his life. It wasn't long before he started producing a steady flow of income by scamming idiots out on the streets with his worn pack of cards that he doesn't remember the origin of, just that the once crisp edges of the cards fit perfectly into the ridges of his deft fingers as he made a card dissapear along with whoever's wallet was the closest. He prospered on his own, a free, wild spirit with no need for anyone other than himself. And then he met Alec Lightwood. 

The first time they met, the vivid feeling of the warm tip of a pistol graced both of their temples as they stood there in silence, they had both broken into the stupidly lavish mansion that was secluded enough for a small bomb to go off unnoticed, but it was Alec who had pulled the trigger, unloading a round of bullets into the heads of the pompous prick who owned the house and his wife, a delicate thing, still looking youthful even though she was old enough to be his mother, blood money was good for the skin. The knowledge that someone had stolen his kill led Magnus to finding the culprit a few rooms over scooping jewels off of a vanity and stuffing them into an old duffel bag. He held the gun up to the stranger's head, an imposing revolver, cast in gold with a charming wooden handle that Magnus had carved his initials into when he had first prised it out of the stiff fingers of a mob boss's corpse. Alec had reacted immediately when he felt the familiar danger, spinning to point his elegant AMT AutoMag III to the temple of the most gorgeous man he had ever seen-- the gun had been a gift from his father, whom he hated, the deep seated passion he felt for the weapon was more because of the bullet it put in the bastards face. He had pulled the trigger that night, knowing that it was empty, the resounding 'click' ringing in their ears before Magnus' eyes filled with a sort of insatiable hunger that made his knees weak before he blacked out at the feeling of the butt of a gold revolver driving into his skull. Magnus had taken the bag from his unresponsive body, the gun too, leaving a flirty comment written in glittery lip gloss on the mirror of the vanity, signed with a curling 'M' for Alec to discover the next morning with a pulsing pain in his head and a smirk on his lips, accepting the challenge. Sometimes, when they trash over-expensive penthouses, taking daggers to couch cushions and baseball bats to ornate pottery, Alec takes that same gun that Magnus had returned to him-- by unceremoniously shoving it down the front of his worn jeans, lips a breath away and eyes half lidded as heated promises were exchanged-- he fires it into the air, uncaring of what target it hit, and swiftly ran the hot metal down the tender skin of the inside of Magnus' thigh, loving how his exclamations of pleasured pain drowned out the sound of sirens slowly approaching. Alec Lightwood was tall, and broad, his dark crown of hair and hazel eyes that aided him the ability to shoot a bullet into an eye from three blocks away, complimented his handsome face like a flame did a gas station, far too dangerous to fully appreciate the magnitude of it's glory. His taste wasn't as expensive as Magnus' but that didn't mean that he didn't indulge, he was decorated with intricate designs and patterns of ink, some had meaning and some didn't, his body a canvas onto which he illustrated the most intimate and disturbing corners of his mind, hidden in plain sight, some could only be understood from a breath away from his skin; Magnus was the first in a long time to study those markings during long days in each other's arms. He tended to keep his facial hair to a short rough stubble, he had usually gone clean shaven until Magnus made a comment on how the short hairs felt between his legs and Alec no longer saw any reason to cut it. He'd sometimes let it grow into a beard but that was usually only when he and Magnus would spend up to a week doing nothing but regaling stories, smoking expensive cigars and having sex. 

That was-- Alec decided--- when Magnus Bane was at his most beautiful, when he was nothing more that an etherial creature crafted by lust, when the playful look in his eyes didn't hold a distant pain that he always carried no matter how confident he may seem, he was glorious like this, panting beneath him, exhausted, dry streaks that had been left in the wake of tears of pleasure trailing from the outer corners of his golden eyes, across his temple to be lost in the forest of thick, inky black hair. Alec presses a kiss to his slightly parted lips then, licking into his mouth sloppily to which Magnus obliges instantly with as much exhausted vigour as he can muster. This was the only thing that seemed to be consistent in their wild, filthy activities, Alec would pull him into a passionate kiss to distract him from the sensation he knew Magnus hated, the feeling of emptiness and vulnerability and exposure as he slowly pulls out from the warm, slick heat. The first time this happens, Magnus shudders at the feeling with a look in his eyes so raw that he leaves Alec there in his own ratty old loft on a pile of expensive fabrics only to come back after an entire week to shove Alec against the pealing wallpaper and sink to his knees, trailing plush lips along every tattoo on Alec's skin as he went before taking him right there, the only way that Magnus Bane knew how to say sorry. 

They weren't dating, no, the better part of the year in which they had been seeing each other had been more of a whirlwind dance of inconsistent passion that burned hotter and brighter than the sun until one of them disappeared for a few weeks before returning as if nothing had happened, but they always did come back one way or the other. Alec realised this fact about half way through it all when Magnus told him about his childhood, how his stepfather had been the previous owner of that beautiful revolver, how it was the same gun that killed his mother, and how he had avenged his mother with his bare hands, his bare, nine-year-old hands and that night, with the symohony of thunder and rain accompanied by the occasional crescendo of lighting playing in the background, he took Magnus' pretty wrists into his hands and pressed them into the tattered mattress so carefully, and whispered sweet reassurance into his pierced ears so profoundly that Magnus flipped them over, straddling narrow hips and delivered three cruel punches to Alec stupid, beautiful, loving gaze until he heard the satisfying, 'crack' of his nose before climbing off of the rickety bed with a promise for more if he pittied him again and storming out of the apartment, making sure to slam the door so hard that the flaking walls quaked. When he eventually came back though, Alec drove Magnus to the Brooklyn Bridge in his battered, blood red Mustang and told Magnus to throw his signature weapon into the leaping waves of the icy water below, and after a threat of breaking more than just Alec's nose if he ordered him around, Magnus flung the golden gun into the sea with a little more pinache than necessary, watching it glint in the orange light of the sunset like a star amidst the sky and laughing so lightly and colourfully that Alec's heart fluttered before he began cursing just as colourfully in his native language, a visceral smile still plastered on his face. When they got home that night Alec bent him over the nearest flat surface and fucked him till he sobbed before falling asleep with the promise of no more gentleness. Ever. Alec buys him a gun matching his own the next day and watches him claim it with a carving of a cat eye.

When Alec was angry you could tell, his fury would radiate off of him in a constant, restrained explosion as words roiled like a flame in the back of his throat before he swallowed that flame and put a bullet in someone's head instead. No one enjoyed being on the receiving end of this, including Magnus no matter how much he denied any sort of capacity of fear. They were a live wire in water, so alive and free and dangerous that something had to go wrong, and it will, and it does. Magnus finds himself with his back pressed against a crumbling wall and a calloused hand holding him by his neck, pressing lightly at first before pushing him backwards so hard that he feels the drywall crack a little bit more behind his head. He gasps a name, not the name Alec had been looking for, not the name of the asshole who Magnus-- without thinking-- said had called him that word as he walked down the street with too much money in the handbag he was carrying to risk the fight, the hateful, bigoted word that Alec hated so much. But Magnus refused, not to defend the bastard but to prevent Alec from being as consumed by his hate and anger towards the world as he had been until that evening on the bridge where he'd let it all go. Alec pulled him forwards but before his head could be slammed back into the dent it had made, Magnus lifted his hands to the sides of Alec's face, stubble scratching unyieldingly at his palms as he firmly pressed their lips together. Alec had backed away with a look on his face that broke Magnus' heart before fleeing the apartment for a good three weeks. When he came back, he wordlessly pulled Magnus into his arms, ducking his head into his throat, inhaling him, before taking him to bed. There was no sex though, just soft brushes of lips and delicate caressing of skin and just this once, Magnus let's him before they drove back to the same bridge and screamed the word into the void of the night at the top of their lungs until their voices were gone and their throats hoarse.

As the two gradually drew closer, like planets caught in each other's gravitational fields, they began to unintentionally form a sort of group. A band of misfits. First there came Isabelle, beautiful and terrifying and Magnus loved her from the moment they met. It had been a complete coincidence, Magnus had been caught counting cards in some seedy underground casino run by the kind of people whose bad side you don't want to get on if you want to keep your fingernails and teeth. The kind of people who you don't run from because there's no point once they're after you and after ignoring Alec's warnings he'd found himself playing black jack with two grotesquely muscular men, both with a permanent grimace on their faces and more tattoos than skin. Magnus had sat down elegantly, the facade of relaxation resting familiarly upon his face as he airily greeted the two gentlemen and started counting. He had tried his hardest to be subtle, but when he got too eager and won over three thousand dollars two games in a row, he was promptly hauled out of the rickety wooden stool and thrown to the sticky, grimy floor; vaguely aware of the kick to his stomach that almost made him throw up the amber liquor he had been sipping.

Then, in a brilliant flash of scarlet, like an avenging angel who could put the devil on a leash, Isabelle had come to his rescue, driving the heel of a red bottomed pump into the back of a head and then a bullet in another, dislocating an arm and burying a crystal hairpin into a moss green eye. He'd looked up at the exquisite woman and returned the smirk she threw over her shoulder, announcing his gratitude as he watched her unwedge her suspiciously sharp heeled pump out of a skull before delicately sliding her foot back in; slowly rising to his feet as she reapplied her blood red lipstick and pressed her mouth to the cleanest part of the wall nearest her and stepped back to admire the clear imprint of lips, "hmm," she'd hummed distantly, "you know, this may be my best work yet."

When she turned around, the hair whirling along with her beautiful head as she faced him, he'd said, "Magnus, thanks for the help," as suavely as he could muster as he took a deep breath to keep himself from throwing up as he regained his balance. Thankfully, the mysterious woman's calculating gaze either didn't notice that he was recovering from the greatest wave of nausea in his life or was merciful enough to look over it.

"Oh I already know who you are, handsome," she had winked. Magnus didn't think much of it, deciding she must have been somebody who did what he did. He hummed acknowledgably and started searching through one of the men's pockets, finding a pack of cigarettes and an old, silver lighter, maybe an heirloom, could go for about $100, he pocketed it. What did give him pause was the next thing to pass her pretty lips, "name's Izzy, you're screwing my brother."

They had made fast friends, soon ending up in Izzy unofficially moving into Magnus' loft, and Magnus would find himself looking forward to finding out what she would bring home at the end of every day. Some days she'd bring home pretty boys and drag them to her bedroom so fast it made his head spin, and after an hour or so of rather animated cries of pleasure, she'd knock them out and take anything valuable before kicking them to the curb. Other days she'd bring home bags of money or jewels or blank cheques written by men with guns to their heads and women with blades to their throats. And on the rare occasion, she'd bring her adoptive brother, Jace, usually because she needed an extra pair of hands to carry out whatever elaborate plan neither Alec nor Magnus had the time to accompany her on.

Jace was the next to join, he was narcissistic and mouthy but worked a knife like it was his job and when he got into a car he was a devil behind the wheel, he didn't like to think about who taught him. He'd been behind the wheel since he was ten-- just tall enough to see over the dash-- taught to be a getaway driver by a man who wasn't his father but raised him for the better part of his childhood. The man he didn't like to mention, Magnus learned this the hard way when his teasing ended him up with a black eye and a fractured wrist. The snide, 'I told you so' from Alec didn't help either. Apart from that incident, Jace and Magnus had gotten along well, sharing a mutual joy in provoking Alec or teasing Izzy, knowing the bruises they'd earn for it probably weren't worth it. Jace drove a suped-up, steel grey dodge challenger with no roof that had enough dents to make its road legality questionable but an engine strong enough to power a small monster truck. It didn't take long for Jace to become the designated driver for all drive-bys there after. Once Jace moved in, the smell of worn leather jackets and burning tyres became a welcome scent in the loft. Sometimes, he would bring a fiery haired girl with him. 

They all realised that Jace was much more subdued when he was with her, how when he'd enter the loft with her hand in his, he'd share a glance with the group in lieu of his usual rowdy entrance and wordlessly guide her to his room where she'd open her box of paints that she always carried with her after Jace stole it from an art store uptown that Clary had trashed only minutes before, returning to him with her arms full of equipment that she was itching to use but a look of discontent in her eyes for what she had to leave behind. She'd trace swirling patterns all over his body before gently washing it away in the tub that they'd fill with lukewarm water. They shared a bond that he thought was more intimate than most, he'd been raised by her father, taught the ways of a monster just for a lovely looking girl who seemed to cry more than she laughed to help him unlearn it all. There were nights when he'd be racked by nightmares so horrific that he thought the only way to chase the demons out of his head was to replace them with a bullet, but Clary's voice worked just as well, talking about anything that came to her mind and no matter how random, it always seemed to be what he needed to hear. Other nights, it the silence of the wee hours of the morning, when Jace was in the limbo between sleep and consciousness, half way present in a world that seemed to be passing by at a snails pace, he'd hear a sound that he wanted to deny, it was quiet, almost nonexistent, but there was no denying the miniscule whimper that pierced through the darkness of his room. The first time he'd heard his brother cry was when the Lightwoods had first taken him in and Jace had hit him a little too hard during training, it was similar to the way Isabelle had cried when she was told she couldn't go on a mission with the adults, a pained, frustrated wail that seemed like it had been held back for long enough to burst in a wave of emotion. But when he first watched Clary's shoulders quiver minutely in the thick shadows of the night, he doesn't know what to do except pull the girl into a hold that is as secure as he can manage at such a time but it seems to be enough. He's always enough for her. When they both wake up panting, neither in the right mind to comfort the other, they wordlessly light a blunt and crack open a bottle of alcohol, be it bottom shelf whiskey or a thousand dollar bottle of champagne, anything to numb the pain until the light of the new day could cleanse them of what haunted their minds so incessantly.

Clary Fray was small and stern and when she moves in the scent of oil paints becomes more common than most but they don't mind, as long as she's happy. On occasion, she will waltz out of the apartment tapping a wooden baseball bat-- stained with every colour she's painted with-- against the floor, expressing her excitement as she slipped to the nearest trendy store that caught her eye and smashed its display window to pieces. This time, it's a music store, and she plucks an acoustic guitar from the extravagant display on the wall. It's for Simon, the boy she grew up with who slunk around town with glasses that had been snapped at the middle and taped back together, a lopsided grin that could brighten up her whole world sometimes and a battered guitar in hand. The one she stole ended up painted and hung on her and Jace's wall for decoration after Simon politely declined, stating that he didn't need it. Simon was  awkward and kind and had more star wars t-shirts than one would consider sensible but Clary loves him, the only brother she ever had. Sometimes he hacks popular websites for fun, likes to watch his silent exploits blow up on the news channels the TVs in store fronts always seemed the be showing, let's out a contented sign before reversing all his work and continuing life as if it never happened.

And sometimes Clary likes to think that Simon Lewis could take over the world if he could ever be bothered.

Simon had the honour of being the only boy to catch Isabelle's eye that she doesn't want to bend and break with nothing but her words and the curve of her spine. She immediately takes a liking to him and he doesn't know what to do with the attention, sometimes he basks in it, loving the warm feeling of being wanted. But other times, he'll slink away with some flimsy, flustered excuse and not come back for a few days until he decides he needs to visit Clary. Yes, that's who he's there for, but the group all know that if that was true, he wouldn't stare so longingly at Isabelle's bedroom door. He wasn't completely gone for her though, or at least not yet, there was a tether wrapped around his heart that reminded him that there was a world outside of the intoxicating, chocolate eyes of Isabelle Lightwood that went by the name of Raphael Santiago. He's quiet and restrained and refuses to make out with Simon on the couch in front of everyone but Simon doesn't mind, just the presence of the young, Hispanic boy is enough to calm him into serenity.

So that was them, a band of misfits strewn together by an unknown force of nature that was just too correct to be coincidence, a family but not quite. They pay off the cops that will take the money and those that don't, they blackmail. Clary will pack her crate of spray paints into Jace's car and dangle over the door to leave a trail of vivid colours on the road in the wake of the car, stopping and starting at random intervals just to confuse the cops chasing them. Simon would stay home, hack a satalite so that Clary could see a birds eye view of her art work when they returned. Isabelle would howl in the backseat and occasionally throw handfuls of whatever they'd stolen out of the car just to watch the faces of the cops morf into complete rage. Magnus would laugh at Izzy's behaviour, a light, musical laugh that almost wasn't drowned out by the sound of his and Alec's twin guns firing harmoniously. Alec would revel in the sensation of Magnus' back pressed against his chest, wrapping an arm around his waist to keep him close and letting a shiver run through his body as Magnus mouthed at his throat, bullets still hitting their target thanks to a little training with Alec. Jace doesn't notice any of this though, just focused on the wind whipping through his pale blond locks, the powerful engine revving beneath him and the trail of red paint ahead that they circled back to after Clary had left it earlier, it looked so much like blood.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I know its been a while so I apologise. This chapter has been sitting in my notes for a while now just waiting to be finished.
> 
> There's a little bit of angst, a little bit of fluff and as always a little bit of smut. Read until the end for a bit of Sizzy. 
> 
> I always try to show some sort of understanding of the characters on a psychological level but you guys tell me what you think. Enjoy!

The first time Alec sees Magnus cry is at the same time as the rest, the crisp night air peircing their skin, every gust of wind bringing prickling tears to their eyes as they passed around an expensive bottle of Japanese whiskey they'd acquired from raiding a bar in a town house a number of blocks back. They'd been gathered in the foyer getting ready to return home when the cracked screen of Simon's laptop lit up with an alert from one of the security cameras he'd hacked. Clary could still remember the solemn expression that draped itself over his face, a foreign look to his usually serene countenance, the effects of the fine, white powder that still lingered on the bow of his upper lip and underneath his nose nullified by the image that covered the majority of the screen. Isabelle's musical laugh had been mortified abruptly, the mischievous curve of Jace's recently sliced open eyebrow straightening out as the firey glimmer in Clary's eyes died down. Alec's heart had lurched as Magnus had moved away from the reassuring hand he placed at his lower back, guise possessing an unreadable distance as his dark lips-- painted by Isabelle who'd declared it would look better on him-- tightened to a thin line, staring at the slanted, amber eyes in the blurry image that he had inherited. The angular hump of his Adam's apple had leapt in his throat as he swallowed thickly, his voice uncharacteristically restrained as he asked, "Is that live?" to which Simon had replied with a minute nod.

They had stayed that way for a moment that stretched for an eternity until Jace had taken the sniper rifle that he'd propped up against a ruined wall after an hour-long target practice with the fancy china they'd found in the kitchen and pressed it into Magnus' hands, "It's what I would do," was all he'd said, sending a piercing gaze before backing away. Sometimes Magnus forgot that he and Jace shared a mutual hatred for the men who raised them, a defining feature of both of their lives that they-- for some reason-- chose not to acknowledge. 

Alec saw then the consideration in the ticking clockwork of Magnus' brilliant mind, knuckles turning white as he clutched the gun with dextrous fingers, the expansion of his chest clear as the muscles under the skin showing through his half open, silk shirt shifted with a deep inhale. He held it there, standing eerily still before nodding with a certainty that none of them dared to question as he slung the gun onto his shoulder. Which led to the roof, a tall apartment building across the street to a three michelin star restaurant where all you had to do was prop a sniper at the right angle in the shadows of the roof and you'd have the perfect shot into Asmodeus' skull. When they'd gotten there, they'd sat down and drank until their hearts didn't feel so tight, Alec had watched Magnus stare through the scope, cigarette dangling precariously between his lips as he mumbled the few lyrics he could remember of a song he had forgotten, all Alec knew was that it wasn't in English. "He's about to leave," Simon had indicated, watching through binoculars as the man stood up and buttoned his blazer, he noted how he didn't bother paying the bill and how the restaurant was near to empty regardless of it being a Friday night in New York City.

Magnus had clenched his jaw, the muscle clearly bouncing in the side of his face as he huffed a shuddering plume of smoke through his nose and cleared his throat. But he didn't shoot. And as Asmodeus stepped out of the glass door, visibly taking in the fresh air, he looked up. He'd seen them. He'd seen Magnus. And all Alec wanted to do was pull him away from the roof and put a bullet in between those eyes that looked too much like Magnus' but a tad too smug, a touch too knowing. And as they witnessed this legendary stare-down between father and son, trying their best to ignore the pained sound that escaped Magnus' throat as he tried to force his trembling fingers to pull the trigger, Clary's fingers had inched just a fraction closer to her baseball bat that had been strewn on the ground next to her, Jace's bandaged hand had closed into a fist and he'd ignored the twangs of pain that erupted from his bruises there as he pressed that fist into the concrete ground, Isabelle's breathing seemed too controlled as she contained her rage and Simon's as well, placing a hand on his bicep as she realised him grinding his teeth. Alec already had his gun in his hand, it would be an easy shot, it wasn't too far and even with his emotions riding high, he'd never missed a shot; he'd tried so hard to convince himself that this was Magnus' kill and he couldn't take it away from him but as he watched Magnus crumble under his father's teasing, coaxing gaze that never faltered, he'd let the words slip, "Just say the word Magnus, just say and I'll do it," but Magnus ignored him and just stared at his father slip a cigar between his lips. Alec wasn't sure whether the tears of frustration began to fall when Asmodeus let one of his goons light it and blew a ring of smoke in Magnus' direction or when he swirled his fingers in the air as a fairwell before sauntering away but when he looked back at Magnus, his cheeks were tragically drenched, smeared with mascara as Magnus slowly moved the rifle to follow Asmodeus until he was out of sight.

What happened next was enough to break their hearts as Magnus suddenly backed away from the gun like it was on fire, eyes hauntingly wide as he stared at where he'd been kneeling, mustering up the courage to kill his father. He'd tried to collect himself there, attempted to wipe away the tears but it seemed too frantic, they fell as soon as he viciously wiped them away with his sleeve and Alec could tell that he was broken, so broken that even when he tried to flee like he always did and Alec stepped in his way like he always did, he didn't punch him in the jaw or twist his arm until it threatened to dislocate but rather just fell into his arms and sobbed, Magnus Bane had finally reached the end of his tether and stood there quivering and desperate, fingers scraping aimlessly at the stray hair on the back of his neck and the solid muscle in his shoulders: anything to make him feel like his world wasn't falling apart.

Isabelle watched silently like the rest did, heartbroken and flaming with the need to stick a stiletto heel into Asmodeus' throat. She'd always seen her brother's relationship as something too complex and simple at the same time for the world to understand how to destroy it, she could barely remember what their lives were like before Magnus Bane, this formidable creature that seemed to bring a light to her brother's eyes that she hadn't seen in a while. They seemed more perfect for each other in that moment than they ever had before, she realised, as she noticed how their bodies fit together perfectly, Magnus' arms that usually moved in a lithe, seductive way now clutched adamantly around solid shoulders as Alec's wrapped around a trembling torso, calloused fingers protectively digging into ribs, clearly trying so desperately to be the anchor that Magnus needed.

That night, in the moments between dawn and midnight, when Alec had hesitantly ran fingers up his bare arm and whispered those three words, in a way that didn't make Magnus feel like he had to say it back, he'd clutched Alec so tightly that he wasn't sure he was breathing and, "Thank you," he'd said it over and over again, between heated kisses and gentle touches, as he'd straddled Alec's legs and pressed his lips and teeth and tounge to every inch of skin he could find, "thank you thank you thank you so much," as he'd lowered himself onto Alec's lap and exhaled his praise in a desperate moan that sounded so broken that Alec gave in and pulled Magnus down to kiss him, thrusting up to meet his hips.

"Say it again," Magnus had requested with a smirk on his lips that Alec couldn't resist kissing, recieving a chuckle and a repetition from the man in front of him, clearly more adamant this time as he bounced his knees that Alec's long legs were draped over in a way that seemed so childish for Magnus. 

He'd taking in his gloriously naked form before, "I love you," and he'd watched the stream of smoke that Magnus had blown out him mouth and into his nose stutter before he exhaled deeply and giggled, placing the cigarette back between his lips and crawling up Alec's body, between his legs.

"Again," he mumbled against his skin, dragging his lips up his chest.

"I love you," Alec had gasped as Magnus had trailed up his throat, his jaw, and to his lips and whispered.

"Again," Alec just took the burning cigarette from his beautiful mouth and kissed him until they couldn't breathe.

"I love you".

And that night, in the darkness of their room, as they tipped over the edge together once more, Magnus still inside him, he had whispered it back when he knew that Alec was too far inside his own head to hear. As if it were a secret, "I love you too," barely audible. He'd tell him properly one day, but for now this was enough. 

________________________

When Isabelle had declared that she wanted to get her nipples pierced she'd been sure to spare the information from her brothers-- who had silently left the loft together to raid a jewelry store, or something along those lines, as they often did when they shared the need to destroy something beautiful. Upon hearing her great announcement that had been partially distracted by the wallet she was sifting through rather insistantly-- she had mumbled before that the owner of said wallet had been more trouble that he was worth, requiring her to harshly drive his skull into her bed frame twice before he stopped squirming-- Magnus had made some crude joke, something about whether they'd factor into her kinky sex, earning a slap on the ankle that had been resting in Clary's lap as he'd cackled musically.

"I know a place," Clary had offered, and that was that. 

Isabelle had hissed at the pain but it was all worth it when Simon's fingers had stuttered to a stop during one of their rare, intimate moments when he felt the two golden hoops through the loose fabric of the tattered band t-shirt that she'd borrowed from Simon but never returned-- she gave the lame excuse when his dark eyebrows raised slightly, saying that she had nothing else to wear which neither of them believed, Isabelle Lightwood never runs out of things to wear, but she would rather give a flimsy excuse that admit that she had taken to sleeping in the t-shirt on more that one occasion.

Upon discovering the new jewellery, Simon had stumbled his way through a series of nervous compliments, instantly retreating his hands to fumble desperately in his lap, vivid pink rising on his cheeks. Isabelle hadn't laughed. She isn't sure why but she didn't, perhaps because it didn't feel appropriate; but she'd swallowed the sultry chuckle that rolled down her tongue and instead silence him with one word. A name. His name, which always seemed to sound so very exotic on her lips despite how mundane he found it. And as he'd raised his head to meet her dark eyes, she'd simply taken his hand by the wrist, slightly raised the shirt with her other hand and guided his long fingers to cup her breast, skin of skin. Calloused musicians hands against soft flesh in a moment so raw that all the saliva had been stripped from Simon's tongue before she's said, "Your move, lover boy," but without the tinge of playfulness that it implied, her voice raspy and dry.

Isabelle is sure that Simon can feel how her heart is pounding, she has never felt so exposed in her life. Has never been on this side of calculating eyes, nor received such scrutiny and all of a sudden, the air in the room is too thin and the deep slow breaths she's taking aren't filling her lungs enough. She isn't given time to panic though, her first desperogasp for more air is swallowed by Simon's lips on hers, his tongue licking tentatively into her mouth and she had the distant thought that he tastes like cigarette smoke and rain and copper as she's layed down on her bed.

She stares at the ceiling when he's inside her, her legs around his waist, manicured nails scraping the nape of his neck and the smooth plain of his back, feeling the lean, shifting muscles there as his name is branded onto the tip of her tongue, her smeared red lips, etched onto the inside of her eyelids in neon lights as they go over the edge and something tells her the next morning, as she holsters her pistol in a garter that isn't concealed by the short skirt she's wearing in the slightest, he won't mind waking up to a cold, empty bed, because he was Simon. And Simon was _good_. The only good boy she'd ever fallen for and the only boy at all she'd fallen for quite like this. He would understand. He always did.

She shuts the door as quietly as she can and ignores the fond ache in her heart as she walks away.

________________________

It was wrong. The emerald that sat snug in a bed of gold was no where near the earthy green of Clary's eyes. It was far too dark. He thinks it's an emerald, he's not sure. He isn't good at this kind of stuff. Clary is though, she seemed to have an infinite rolodex of knowledge about anything she envisioned in watercolour or ink or oil. The New York City skyline, exotic flowers, the place and purpose of every muscle in Jace's body. He was in awe of her. He didn't know how else to show her other than the necklace which-- when he had walked past the store front that morning with a vow to return for it later-- had been the perfect shade, perhaps the early morning sunlight had altered it hue but that didn't matter, it was wrong and there was nothing he could do.

He dropped the necklace, it was useless to him. Instead he fills his pockets with whatever he finds that he would like to see perched in the hollow of her collar bone or encircling her angular, artist's wrists. 

He silently presses each piece into her palms and she smiles so beautifully and thanks him, tells him she loves him as they lay down in their expensive bedsheets on their shitty mattress, his head laid against her chest, her fingers in his hair, her heartbeat the only sound loud enough to combat the assembly of thoughts in the back of his skull. 

Of course she said thank you, she doesn't know that he had wanted the colour of her eyes captured into a gemstone, she doesn't know he had failed her. But that's okay, the string of pearls that her eyes had glimmered at would be enough for now until he found the right one. He wanted to give her everything she deserved. Well, she deserved the world. So jewelry and art supplies would have to do until he found a way to give that to her too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I don't know whether I'll make this a full story, I might post it as a series of loosely connected chapters but with no set plot. Anyway, how'd you like this chapter and what would you like to see in the chapters to come?

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment and tell me what you think. Should I make another chapter?


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